Obsessive
by the littlest dreamer
Summary: If your love never could be, what would you do? Fight for it, or take the easy way out? SLASH  oneshot


**Title: **Obsessive

**Author: ** the littlest dreamer

What a stupid, stupid thing he had done.

The moment he had laid eyes on him that summer, sitting nonchalantly at a muggle café, his dark hair swaying gently in the breeze, reading a muggle newspaper, his cup of coffee leaving repeated circles of stain on the pretty, white tablecloth, he should have turned straight back and walked away.

Instead, of all the foolish things, he had mumbled an excuse about seeing a childhood friend to the Weasleys and, making sure all eyes were occupied elsewhere, had crossed the street over to muggle London before he could think twice about it.

He had found himself standing uncertainly—foolishly—in front of the man.

The man had taken one look at him, lowered his newspaper slowly, and, with a smirk spreading lazily across his face, had invited him to sit down.

And he had

O=o=o=o=O

What had followed had left him reeling, surreal, that whole day.

They had talked politics—then Quidditch—then world domination—then Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans. And at one point in the conversation, the man's hand had rested on his—and stayed that way for the rest of the time.

He didn't move it away.

O=o=o=o=O

When the man had asked, at the end, to meet him again, he had said no.

But he had also blushed furiously at the request.

When the man had asked if he would see him again, he had said yes, uncertainly—_if you want to_.

-Still blushing furiously, charmingly.

The man had bent down; closely, closely—close enough to kiss—and had whispered him a promise. His breath tickled his ears.

When the man had long gone, he punched the wall—but not hard enough to break it.

O=o=o=o=O

Mrs. Weasley was the first to notice the large purple bruise and the litter of grazes adorning his right hand.

She had gasped, been horrified, and had asked him if he'd got into a fight.

He had said no, _I tripped on the stairs_ _and knocked it on the wall_. He said it unflinchingly.

And Mrs. Weasley had left it, although she still shot him worried glances when she thought he wasn't looking. But he caught every one.

O=o=o=o=O

When the Weasleys gathered into teams to play Quidditch, with Hermione sitting nearby with a large tome, all he could think of was how _his_ mouth had curled into a smile and how he had placed his chin into his hand, using his fingers to hide that smile—or perhaps it was a smirk.

But he hadn't been able to hide it. And when Harry had seen it he had felt a funny sort of tingling in his stomach.

He realized that the snitch had been floating lazily in front of him for the past five minutes and he had been staring straight at it vapidly.

O=o=o=o=O

When September 1st loomed, he dreaded it with all his might for the first time in his life.

He grew depressed, grew angry, and grew frustrated — glaring and scowling at everyone. When Ginny finally snapped at him, he had apologized, but he wasn't sorry at all.

He wouldn't see the man.

O=o=o=o=O

A letter arrived with a very graceful looking grey owl two days before the 1st. She dropped the letter on Harry's plate and swooped off, but not before piercing the Weasleys with a disdainful stare.

The elegant, flowing hand inside reminded him strongly of the long, white fingers. The long, white fingers curled around his own hand, softly, gently stroking—cradling the cup of coffee, curled around his mouth, hiding the smile.

The letter contained only three words.

_Come to me._

And he had gone. The familiar jerk of a portkey tugged just behind his navel.

O=o=o=o=O

He was deposited awkwardly in a graveyard.

The man was standing there again—In front of the tomb with the large angel. To his left stood a cracked tombstone with the words _Tom Riddle_ fading from it.

He was smiling at him—not hidden behind his hand. His hands were twirling his bone-white yew wand.

_He_ didn't have his wand with him. It was lying on his bedside table next to the cup he had filched from the café—the cup which had been cradled in the man's hand, pressed against his lips.

The man was in front of him, leaning over him, his fingers tangled in his hair and his lips tickling his ears like they once did.

_Would you like to die, Harry?_

_O=o=o=o=O_

Harry placed his hands around his neck and stole just one kiss from the man—first and last.

He pressed himself as close as he could to the man, and placed his lips near his ear—near enough to kiss.

_Yes._

_END_

Review and tell me what you think, please?

Inspired by the first few pages of _Portrait _by Joyce. The writing style, not the content…I was in a weird mood.


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